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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097366">White-Hot</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryvincible/pseuds/veryvincible'>veryvincible</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Established Relationship, Graphic-ish Depiction of Self Harm, Hurt/Comfort (kind of), Hydra Antics, Isolation, Kidnapped Steve Rogers, Kidnapping, M/M, Self-Harm, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Whump, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, u know how hydra is...</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-09 04:01:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097366</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryvincible/pseuds/veryvincible</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The fluorescent overhead lights never turned off. The room only seemed to get more blindingly white as days passed, and though Steve could at least find solace in the pinkish tone of his skin in the beginning, the contrast seemed less and less stark as time went on. Everything became horribly flat, and he wondered if he'd mourn the loss of the world's vibrancy more or less if he wasn’t an artist at heart.</p><p>When was it worth it to stop fighting?</p><p>Maybe it didn't have to be. Maybe it wasn't worth it.<br/>Maybe he just couldn't, anymore.</p><p> </p><p>Please mind the tags.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers/Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>58</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>White-Hot</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Steve Rogers never stopped fighting.</p><p> </p><p>He'd been a stubborn man his whole life. It took a long while for him to even recognize that he experienced that grit to such an extreme degree; he spent his whole childhood surrounded by it, after all. His father fought to be seen and obeyed. His mother fought to live. When he was a young man, Bucky fought with the same vigor he did (because of him, maybe), and it was only after Bucky's death that Steve had asked the question:</p><p> </p><p>When was it worth it to stop fighting?</p><p> </p><p>At that point in his life, he was so much angrier. He was so much more frustrated. He was so obsessed with this idea of righteousness and human freedom, this idealistic version of it he'd seen stripped away from so many who were helpless to allow the abuse, and he concluded: never.</p><p> </p><p>It was never worth it.</p><p> </p><p>He would never call Bucky a "sacrifice," nor would he call him a "necessary casualty." He was a kid, back then, and he should never have been out there. He should never have been fighting. But he was, and he did, and he died for it. In Steve's mind, if not in reality, that bright-eyed young kid he knew was gone.</p><p> </p><p>The first issue with stubbornness in his line of work, he found, was that you more often stood at the side of familiar sized caskets than you did in the crowds of the ceremonies celebrating your good work. There was a cost, always, and it happened to be personal more often than not.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he was thinking too broadly. There was hardly room for personal costs when the dream- the dream he represented, the dream he defended- had become him. That was what he believed for a short while, anyway, after Bucky's death. It was what he had to believe. There was no Steve Rogers to mourn him anymore- not one his mother would recognize. There was Captain America, and Captain America stood up for what was right, and Captain America would fight when the men around him fell because otherwise, they would have fallen in vain.</p><p> </p><p>It was a sick cycle, and Steve was well aware of that; you fought to avenge those who fought before you. They fought to avenge those who fought before them. They all had their reasons, he supposed. Some men needed the money, the shelter, the sense of belonging... and some men, like him, just wanted to do good.</p><p> </p><p>If only he'd known then how complicated "good" was. If nothing else, he still held onto one belief: he'd rather be fighting the enemy head-on than going through the bureaucratic hellscape that was the alternative. At the very least, he could feel his progress crack and bruise and bleed under his fists, and he could hate himself for that- for the violence, for the urgency, for the eagerness- just a little bit. It was satisfying in a sick sort of way in the beginning, when he was too young and too dumb to realize that some human beings were destined to meet the blunt edge of a shield or a red-gloved fist in the moments before they met God.</p><p> </p><p>He'd grown to understand that he wasn't sick- not the same way Joseph was, at least, and not the same way some of the other men were (who'd only joined the military because they liked the idea of bloodshed, no matter whose blood it was). Destiny was. The world was, to some degree. The redeeming quality had and always would be individuals themselves, kindhearted and welcoming. They were the kind you hoped to come home to, the ones Steve knew waved flags for the victors they were fortunate enough to be unable to empathize with. People redeemed the world- the people who knew what being people meant- and the more Steve sat with that, the more alright he was with himself, going off and beating the hell out of the people who didn't.</p><p> </p><p>That belief had only been strengthened each day he was alive. He met the Avengers, he met Tony Stark- Lord, that brilliant, gorgeous Tony Stark- and he was lucky enough to retrieve some of the things he'd lost from the past. He was paid for his service, given his medals and his honors, he was given a place to belong, and he was given a new lease on life. Even Bucky had come back, broken and changed as he was, and Steve was grateful for the fact that he was allowed a second chance as well regardless of how well he was set up for it. Damaged was better than dead, he thought.</p><p> </p><p>He thought Bucky was happy with his second chance. As happy as he could be, at least. He had Nat, and there were plenty of days where he looked at Clint and Sam more like family members than nuisances (though, even the latter seemed fond most times). He had his cat and his apartment, and his job suited him as well as any, though Steve sometimes didn't love to think of it in those terms.</p><p> </p><p>He was happy with his own second chance, as well. He'd learned more than he ever thought he'd learn in his life- more than his know-it-all 20-something year old self thought was out there to know. He made his friends, he built his family, he fought alongside them and he fought them themselves, and he learned.</p><p> </p><p>Again, he asked the question:</p><p> </p><p>When was it worth it to stop fighting?</p><p> </p><p>He'd come to a different conclusion. It was worth it when those you were fighting against were the same people you needed to fight for good. It was worth it when you stopped being a unified force for the sake of the dream, and you started being a tank with a U-shaped gun. It was worth it when sacrifices could be made- not people, not ideologies, but sacrifices of comfort in one's simplistic view of the world- for the better of that world.</p><p> </p><p>When he was young, he thought fighting was something that happened between good guys and bad guys-- <em> us and them</em>, more like. The people who knew what it meant to be people, and the people who didn't. He got older, and he realized that maybe he wasn't so sure what it meant to be a person after all. Maybe no one was.</p><p> </p><p>He had to shift. He had to change. The world wouldn't accommodate him unless he accommodated it.</p><p> </p><p>He changed his definition of the phrase: knowing what it meant to be a person couldn't be synonymous with defending the dream. It couldn't be. There were more dreams to be had. He could thank plenty of people for broadening his horizons in that sense- Sharon did what needed to be done on a smaller scale, and Tony on a larger one. Both of them, Steve thought, were as good as any other person Steve could think of, if not better. Steve learned from Natasha, who'd been subjected to brutality so different from his own that he could hardly even conceptualize it some days, at least individually. He learned from Bucky and from Sam, and he learned from Clint, and he got to know all of those people who knew what it meant to be people in ways Steve couldn't fathom.</p><p> </p><p>All together, they were a tank with mismatched wheels and chipped paint. No, not a tank- not a weapon- but a shield. A suit of armor. They were better together.</p><p> </p><p>When was it worth it to stop fighting?</p><p> </p><p>When you'd be better together.</p><p> </p><p>It was an easy sentiment to adopt, and one that could have saved him quite a bit of grief throughout his life; it allowed for simplicity with objective antagonists to the more broad global view of the dream he'd been defending all his life (freedom, that was, in its purest and most thriving form), and it allowed for complexity in how he'd handle his allies.</p><p> </p><p>He was proud to be where he was, then. He was proud of the growth he'd experienced and the changes he'd made. Some days, it was a kind of proud separate from himself, more akin to a feeling of "This is a version of me that's better for the world," as opposed to "This is a version of me that's better for me." Other days, he looked at everything he'd built with those he loved and the home he would forever be grateful for, and he felt a different kind of pride.</p><p> </p><p>It was an <em> I'm right where I'm supposed to be </em> kind of pride. He'd felt nothing like it before. It got him more than he could have hoped for back in his twenties, when he thought (and maybe hoped) he'd die in the war, fighting the good fight. He had access to a better team than any could have asked for. He had more resources to do good than he ever thought he would, and God, the love he was able to feel was astronomical.</p><p> </p><p>The future had given him all of that and more; his favorite thing of all, he thought, was Tony Stark. It was only fitting that the future would gift him a futurist, so gorgeous and bright that all the stars in the sky couldn't outshine him. His eyes sparkled and his body- lithe, but toned- was quick and jerky in as graceful a way Steve could have pictured it. He was a man rife with contradictions; he sought love more than anything but never thought he could have it, he so desperately wanted to live to do his work on earth and yet seemed to struggle every day of it, he was lively but pained and handsome but tired and so complex that Steve had difficulties keeping up at times. Tony Stark was everything.</p><p> </p><p>The future had given him Tony Stark, and Tony Stark had given him a wedding band- colored like gold, but stronger- and he'd gotten so much from the world that he thought he might never be able to pay it all back. The idea wasn't terribly disheartening; in fact, he didn't mind it at all. <em> I'll spend the rest of my days trying to make you even half as happy as you've made me</em>, he thought, and it gave him a new sense of purpose. When he woke up next to Tony Stark, he woke up content.</p><p> </p><p>He hadn't woken up next to Tony Stark in a long time.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The second issue with stubbornness in his line of work came with the reality of the job description. He was Captain America: he smiled for pictures, he played nice with politicians (within reason), he beat the shit out of Nazis and other worldly (or space-ly) threats, he filled out paperwork, he filled out more paperwork, and every so often, he was kidnapped.</p><p> </p><p>And, well.</p><p>He'd been kidnapped.</p><p> </p><p>He would joke about being a hot commodity if he had the energy left to joke. He wasn't sure quite how long it had been since he was taken, but it was somewhere between... a handful of weeks and a handful of years. Probably closer to weeks, right? But maybe not much closer. Had the team been unaware of his kidnapping, any semblance of a timeline would be nearly impossible to put together. He knew they were looking, though- they had to be- and he was certain they wouldn't take too long to find him.</p><p> </p><p>Right?</p><p>They knew he was gone, right?</p><p> </p><p>Steve had no way of knowing. He was completely unaware of the circumstances of his kidnapping- he wasn't totally immune to mind-altering drugs of a high enough dosage, and it wasn't like he was invincible. You could likely manage to drag him off if you hit him hard enough to knock him down. The problems tended to arise when he woke up.</p><p> </p><p>Steve Rogers was a biter. He was a biter, as well as a kicker, a puncher, a grabber, and anything else you could be if you'd grown up scrappy and weren't a fan of being kidnapped by terrorist organizations. There was nothing <em> inherently </em> wrong with this, of course, as most of the time, it allowed Steve to escape his captors before he could ever really be considered a "victim of kidnapping."</p><p> </p><p>But sometimes he went down. Sometimes, he didn't wake up easy. Sometimes, he woke up strapped to tables, or chairs, or walls (which were the least comfortable, he'd found, as gravity made everything dig into your skin <em> just </em> so). There were often tubes involved- many, many tubes, some filled with clear liquids and some moving blood and some colorful and vibrant and almost hues that Steve might even consider pretty under different circumstances.</p><p> </p><p>Steve hadn't even seen those in the longest time. He'd been deprived of them as well-- and that was a funny thought, describing himself as <em> deprived </em> of unwilling experimentation, but his weeks or months or years of captivity had certainly done funnier things to him.</p><p> </p><p>Had he been less stubborn, perhaps he'd be allowed more freedom. That was one thing he admired about Tony, and it was one thing Tony did that frustrated the hell out of him.</p><p> </p><p>Steve got up. Steve fought. When it was right to fight- when the fighting was justified- Steve fought.</p><p> </p><p>Tony didn't, always, and that was as perplexing as anything to Steve. Sometimes, Tony talked his way out of situations that Steve thought he should have confronted. Sometimes, Tony stayed silent, and he allowed himself to hurt because he was the only one (he thought, at least, which was perplexing in its own right some days). Sometimes, Tony made deals, he compromised, he outsmarted, he escaped.</p><p> </p><p>Another contradiction Steve found in Tony Stark: he was unpredictable and predictable. He was a rational man, clearly, and some would say he was too much of one. Steve figured you could throw a handful of variables into the mix again and again and, if you were smart enough, or if you had the tech to help you out with it, you could figure out what Tony would do under almost any set of circumstances. Steve thought Tony was consistent in beliefs and rationale, but inconsistent in actions; at the end of the day, he was under the assumption that Tony was just working with a different set of variables than Steve tended to.</p><p> </p><p>Tony was stubborn in his own right.</p><p>He wasn't stubborn like Steve.</p><p> </p><p>Steve was the kind of stubborn you had to break down. The timeline was fuzzy in his head; he couldn't tell you when he did what or when, exactly, they retaliated, but there was a clear trend of cause-and-effect he could recognize easily.</p><p> </p><p>The first fix was relatively simple, and Steve had a difficult time commending Hydra (he thought it was Hydra, at least, but there was no way of confirming-- he didn't recognize the cell he'd been placed in as anything he'd seen before) for something so simple.</p><p> </p><p>They came into the room. They were armored up, armed, they had tasers at the ready, and they probably fully believed they were prepared to retrieve Steve for whatever fucked up bullshit it was they wanted to put him through. He fought. He almost won.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't remember the next time they came to retrieve him, nor did he remember any time after that. What he <em> did </em> remember was that, every so often, the ceiling of the room would lift just a centimeter or so, and a barely visible cloud of gas would seep in through the crack. He'd wake up restrained in another room.</p><p> </p><p>Had Steve been in their position (he wouldn't be), he would have thought of that before anyone actually had to get hurt. It was almost amusing that they seemed to be hopeful about his level of obedience. It wasn't like his rebellious nature was news to anyone; his husband had mentioned it countless times, and even the fucking United States Government was aware of it. Sure, maybe the common citizen might have an idea of Captain America that was more sterilized, but Hydra? Really?</p><p> </p><p>Steve wasn't going to say they were stupid. They wouldn't be so goddamn dangerous if they were stupid.</p><p>He just wasn't above calling it like he saw it: they certainly made a hobby out of acting like it.</p><p> </p><p>They could have restrained him fully from the beginning. They didn't.</p><p> </p><p>He'd wake up partially restrained. He'd bite.</p><p> </p><p>The next time he woke up, they'd have a metal fixture around his jaw to keep it shut. He'd kick.</p><p> </p><p>The time he woke up after that, they'd have his legs fixed firmly to the wall. He'd struggle still, and with each act of rebellion, he was restricted even further, until he'd wake up completely and utterly immobilized, only able to scan the room and the faces of those working on him. He couldn't even open his mouth to speak, and for them, that was for the better.</p><p> </p><p>His only respite was when he was returned to his room in between their tests and their experiments, though it could hardly be called a respite after long.</p><p> </p><p>There was the same gradual decline in the quality of his living space that there was in the testing areas. The worse he lashed out, the less he'd be able to keep. At first, it wasn't the worst arrangement in the world-- though he was spiteful still, of course, given that Hydra accommodations were Hydra accommodations no matter how pretty they tried to make them.</p><p> </p><p>The walls were white- the kind of white that the penthouse was, sterile and immaculately kept. It wasn't much of a comfort; their penthouse, at the very least, had splashes of colors and plants in some corners and crevices. This room had nothing of the sort. There was a white bed with a white bed frame and white sheets, and a white table in the corner with a white chair, and there was a white shirt and a white pair of pants for him to change into atop that white table, which he kindly (read: resentfully) refused.</p><p> </p><p>It wasn't so bad at first.</p><p>It wasn't so bad, but one day, he woke up stripped of the clothes he was wearing before entirely, and he figured he wouldn't be worse off in that white shirt and those white pants.</p><p> </p><p>As the days or weeks or months passed, it only got more disorienting. His meals started out fairly simple; he'd have some meat, some rice, and maybe a fruit cup or a small serving of vegetables. He refused the food at first, too, but it wasn't long (it felt like it, though, and maybe it was) before he felt as if he'd starve if he continued on like that.</p><p> </p><p>The team wouldn't be happy, seeing him in this condition. They'd be worse off seeing a corpse.</p><p> </p><p>So, he ate.</p><p> </p><p>The next time they gave him a meal, there was no meat. Instead, there were scrambled egg whites where there used to be a poorly cooked steak or piece of chicken. The meal after that, the usual serving of fruit and vegetables had been replaced with cauliflower.</p><p> </p><p>He realized what it was they were trying to do. He was certain, at least in the beginning, that it wouldn't affect him so much. He'd been through worse, hadn't he?</p><p> </p><p>He was isolated, though, and he knew how that alone could damage even the most resilient men alive. He was isolated, and there were only so many thoughts and memories he could cycle through before even that became more of a chore than a comfort. He laid down and tried to imagine Tony there next to him, with his olive-toned skin and his icy blue eyes, but Steve found himself losing his confidence in his memory of those eyes. Tony's hair was black- jet black as opposed to a warmer shade, which Steve noticed as soon as he met Tony- but even his hair was difficult to remember too accurately. The more Steve tried to picture Tony's face, the more it felt as if he was grasping for vague concepts of what he <em> thought </em> Tony looked like as opposed to memories he had of Tony himself.</p><p> </p><p>He thought of his mother, and how he couldn't quite picture her face, either, and how he couldn't remember whether her eyes were blue or green or grey. And he thought maybe Tony's eyes were green, and they'd been green all along, and Steve had just convinced himself they weren't. It was strange-- he used to be so certain, so able to sketch Tony's face out perfectly by memory alone.</p><p> </p><p>He laid there alone and hugged his pillow, trying to remember what it was Tony felt like in his arms. He was... cold. His hands were cold. No, they weren't. They hadn't been, since the new body. Or were they? Had they ever been cold? Was Steve just creating false memories based off of what little he knew about Tony's health? He knew Tony had circulation issues before... Didn't he? Or was it just trauma that affected his torso, close enough to the heart that Steve thought it must have been related?</p><p> </p><p>When had he become so forgetful?</p><p>How long had it really been?</p><p> </p><p>He'd wake up in the labs sometimes, and even the transparent tubes transporting colored fluids were shielded from his view. He wasn't sure he was even looking for the colors anymore. He wasn't sure he was expecting them.</p><p> </p><p>He thought something must have been wrong with him. Maybe he <em> had </em> just given up. Maybe he was leaving it up to the team to find him. But that wasn't like him, was it? He couldn't stop fighting now. They must have been drugging him. There must have been something in the food, something in the IVs, something in the air.</p><p> </p><p>There must have been something.</p><p> </p><p>The fluorescent overhead lights never turned off. The room only seemed to get more blindingly white as days passed, and though Steve could at least find solace in the pinkish tone of his skin in the beginning, the contrast seemed less and less stark as time went on. Everything became horribly flat, and he wondered if he'd mourn the loss of the world's vibrancy more or less if he wasn’t an artist at heart.</p><p> </p><p>He tried to control as much as he could; he imposed a strict routine on himself, though he had no way of accurately measuring how much time had passed during each stage of it. It wasn't the most consistent in these terms, but if nothing else, there was a clear and repetitive to-do list he could follow every time he reoriented himself after waking up in the cell again.</p><p> </p><p>He woke up. He worked out. He ate- rice first, then eggs, then cauliflower. He was sure the meals must have been modified in some way, if only because he didn't think they'd risk damaging him to the point where he was no longer viable to participate (unwillingly) in their experiments. Regardless, they were unfulfilling in any way that mattered. After he'd eaten, he'd pace, and then he'd work out again (100 push-ups, 100 sit-ups, warm-ups and cool-downs and stretches and whatever the fuck else he could think to add to the list). Once he'd finished all of that, he'd lay back down, and he'd try to picture Tony's face again- he'd try to picture the whole team, in fact, and he'd try to picture his mother, and he tried to picture his and Tony's penthouse, and he tried--</p><p> </p><p>He tried everything. He tried everything he could. He wanted to be okay. He wanted to be sane.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't want to come home broken. He couldn't imagine how Tony must have felt, losing Steve for so long. He was probably worrying himself sick. Steve had seen him worry over other missing heroes; he barely slept, he barely ate, and he barely took the time to consider himself as a person until his functionality was impaired enough to impact his search. Steve couldn't blame him. He would be the same if Tony had up and disappeared (if that was even what happened-- again, Steve really didn't know <em> how </em> he'd gotten there).</p><p> </p><p>The longer he was gone, though, the harder it was to worry. He felt so separate from his family, then. Sometimes, he felt as if he didn't exist at all.</p><p> </p><p>This was one of those days.</p><p> </p><p>He woke up. His sheets were scratchy, but he'd grown used to it. It wasn't like he was a stranger to uncomfortable sleeping conditions, but he had to admit, having a billionaire for a husband made it easy to get used to 400... thousand, or something, Egyptian silk (or cotton, or something) sheets. It was easy to miss the lace trim of the robes Tony sometimes slept in (they were red, usually, such a vibrant red, and, Lord, Steve missed that red) when he held onto his stiff white pillow in his stiff white bed. He was vaguely aware of what it was he was missing, but he couldn't actually bring himself to think of words like <em> love </em> and <em> longing</em>. They felt so far away, then. So unattainable.</p><p> </p><p>He got up. He dropped to the cold floor (which felt like marble, but without the marbling, and he wasn't quite sure if that was a separate thing or not, but he certainly was planning on taking a few minutes out of his day to think about it) and began to count his push-ups, slowing them down enough to draw out the amount of time he could fill up with this without fucking up his pre-set conditions. He was at 74 when he saw a hint of fog slipping down from above out of the corner of his eye, and by the time he'd hit 86, his vision had begun to blur. He collapsed to the floor before 90.</p><p> </p><p>So much for routine.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He couldn't say he was surprised waking up in any specific room under any specific circumstances. To be surprised, he figured he had to have expectations, and he thought he'd lost the ability to expect anything from his captors a long while ago.</p><p> </p><p>This time, when he woke up, he was strapped down to a cold metal table. The restraints weren't so intense; each wrist was cuffed to the side of the table closest to it, each ankle the same. There was a strap holding his forehead down. Under different circumstances, he was sure he'd be able to break out of these easily, but there was something foggy and not-quite-right with the way the room looked flat and distant and the way his body felt so heavy- as if it were melting into the table itself- that made him believe struggling wasn't going to do much for him at all.</p><p> </p><p>So, he stopped fighting.</p><p>He was conscious enough to ask himself, again:</p><p>When was it worth it to stop fighting?</p><p> </p><p>He didn't know. In that moment, he really didn't know. Was it worth it? Was he going back on everything he'd said and everything he'd fought for for so long, just by laying there on that table after months or years or decades (not decades, of course not decades, but he was so tired and so separate from himself and so disconnected from reality that he'd believe it if you told him it was true)?</p><p> </p><p>When was it worth it to stop fighting?</p><p>Maybe it didn't have to be. Maybe it wasn't worth it.</p><p>Maybe he just couldn't, anymore.</p><p> </p><p>The thought might have made him sick, if he still felt like Steve Rogers. He wasn't anymore. Not there, at least. He'd either die there- unlikely, because of course the team was coming for him, of course they were- or he'd find his home once again, and he'd be able to ask himself questions that meant more than jack shit again. He'd be able to think thoughts that mattered. He'd be able to live.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't feel alive, there.</p><p> </p><p>There was something about the way they had him rigged to the table that allowed them to turn him onto his stomach with ease, and, being Not Steve Rogers and Not Quite Alive, he allowed them to do so with no issue. He wasn't really there. It wasn't really happening. It was nothing but a moment that would pass, and there would be more moments to come.</p><p> </p><p>And then, for the first time in quite a long time, he felt.</p><p> </p><p>He felt agony.</p><p> </p><p>There was a hot, searing pain across the whole of his back, and he could hardly even turn his head enough to see what it was that they were doing to him. There was a metal object, wide but not bulky- it almost looked like a rake, and the thought of Hydra being cheap enough to antagonize him with tools from the Home fucking Depot would have been funny if he'd been present enough in his mind at the time to think about it in those terms. There were parts of the object that were giving off a bright orange light, and it was the kind of light Steve recognized. He'd seen it in Tony's workshop a million times before.</p><p> </p><p>It was hot metal.</p><p> </p><p>It was hot metal, being scraped down his body from his shoulder blades to the small of his back. It was then that he realized how little he'd been using his voice in the past however long it had been, because the pained scream that was torn out of his throat was more sharp and agonizing than any he'd let out before.</p><p> </p><p>Distantly, he was aware of the people around him chatting back and forth. They spoke like Tony spoke, a little bit, when Reed was around. Or when Bruce was around, or Hank. They spoke back and forth as if bouncing off of each other, and Steve's chest tightened as he heard low laughter coming from one side of the room. He wasn't aware enough of his surroundings to catch exactly what it was they were saying to each other, but he heard mentions of "subjects RB2-A, RB2-B, and RB2-C," and how they were responding to similar experimentation.</p><p> </p><p>One of them had passed out already, he heard. RB2-B. The treatment was ineffective. The other two were responding as expected, he heard.</p><p> </p><p>He heard the word "sterilization" next, and after that came searing pain. It was a careless but generous splash of- of something hot and cold and sharp and awful, and it reeked of alcohol, and Steve couldn't-- God, he couldn't-- He could--</p><p> </p><p>His breaths came in quick and shallow as they turned him back around. His back felt raw against the cold metal of the table. He was a resilient man, certainly- Steve Rogers was, at least- but this was so much after so long of so little, and he couldn't help but succumb to the overwhelming pain. His head lolled as far to the side as it was able to, and when he was finally able to open his eyes, he noticed a red spot of blood on the white coat of the man standing at the table's side.</p><p> </p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh, that was beautiful. Wasn't it? Red, like Tony's robes and his lingerie, and his sheets, and the paintings on his walls. Red like Tony's suit, and red like Tony's throw pillows, and red like the bouquets of roses Steve bought for Tony every anniversary they had. It was red like the silk tie Tony wore to most public events, and red like the gemstone on Tony's engagement ring, and it had been so long since Steve had seen that gorgeous, gorgeous color that for just a moment, the threat of tears was more pressing than the threat of pain.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn't have imagined himself sobbing at the beginning of this. It was all a sick fucking game, and he knew that well. But, fuck, he'd been deprived of everything, hadn't he?</p><p> </p><p>It was his own blood, wasn't it? The wounds may not have been cauterized instantly. Maybe not every prong of the... rake, or whatever it was, because <em> rake </em> seemed too simple and innocent a word to describe whatever the fuck it was that hurt <em> so goddamn much</em>.</p><p> </p><p>It would be over soon, though, wouldn't it? It'd be over. He'd wake up alone in his room again, and he'd be able to remember that red more clearly than ever, and maybe he'd remember Tony better, too.</p><p> </p><p>Except, it wasn't over.</p><p> </p><p>The metal underneath him was warming, and it was almost pleasant for a moment as it hit a point of warmth that wasn't so extreme. And then it kept going. And it kept going, and all over again, he felt like he'd been set aflame, and no amount of writhing could free him from his restraints.</p><p> </p><p>He heard <em> subjects </em> and letters and numbers and <em> lost consciousness</em>, and for a short while, there was an air of disappointment that settled in the room.</p><p> </p><p>Steve didn't have the strength to take much more, and as his body went white-hot, his vision went black.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>He woke up in that same white room. It must not have been long after the incident, as his back still felt raw as anything and he could barely move without wincing. He pushed himself into a seated position and stared at the floor. Would it be worth it to go through the routine, then? Would it hurt more than it would help?</p><p> </p><p>Would it be a win for them if he gave this up, too? Would it be a loss for himself?</p><p> </p><p>He lifted the sheets off of himself. He was about to stand when he saw the spots of red left on the cloth.</p><p> </p><p>Red, like...</p><p> </p><p>Red like Tony.</p><p> </p><p>He tried to bend his arm to touch his presumably still-bleeding back, but it was too awkward a position for him to get anything but messy smears of red across the meat of his thumb. It was crazy, and he knew it was crazy-- he knew it was such an extreme measure, one that Tony himself wouldn't even want for him, but he'd heal, wouldn't he? Steve would heal. Tony wouldn't have to know.</p><p> </p><p>Steve slipped out of his bed and onto the floor, allowing his back to press against the mattress in hopes that the blood would seep through the sheets further. He raised his knees up to rest an arm palm-up on top of them. He set his nails atop the base of his wrist, and after a deep breath, he began to drag them down, hard.</p><p> </p><p>No blood.</p><p> </p><p>He repeated the action, harder.</p><p> </p><p>No blood.</p><p> </p><p>One more time, he dug his nails in and dragged harshly down, and lines of red began to follow. Red like Tony. Red like silk. Red like lace.</p><p> </p><p>A harsh sob was torn from his throat; it was longing, it was love, it was pain, it was disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>He couldn't see the familiar fog creep in through the blurriness of his tear-filled eyes. When he collapsed this time, there was no warning.</p><p> </p><p>His world went from white, to red, to black.</p><p> </p><p>When he woke up again, he was bandaged up. The sheets had been replaced, and his shirt had been changed. His nails had been dulled and filed down so close to the nail beds that, on any normal day, he might have been worried about an infection.</p><p> </p><p>He tried to take control. He really did.</p><p>There was nothing he could do. They'd proven that much.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>He'd dreamt of a rescue in the beginning. It wasn't as much a hopeful sort of thing as it was a fact of life bleeding into every thought he had. His team would come for him, and he knew it. He knew it. He dreamt of red, and he dreamt of gold, and Tony's icy blue or green or grey eyes and his maybe sharp-ish jaw, and he could practically <em> feel </em> the hold of the armor around him, keeping him steady, lifting him up. He knew he wouldn't be able to stand steady on his own, after all- if not because of the physical pain, then because of the overwhelming desire to be as close to Tony as he could possibly be.</p><p> </p><p>He'd dreamt of a rescue, and yet, at some point, it began to slip from his mind. It wasn't like he thought they'd given up on him; he'd just felt so isolated, so far away from them. Some days (he thought they were days, at least, but again, he could hardly tell), he was more in the past than in the future, focused more on the memories of his loved ones than the reality that he'd see them again someday.</p><p> </p><p>When the time came, he was wholly unprepared.</p><p> </p><p>He was laying in bed with that god-awful pillow hugged to his chest as he tried to fall asleep- the last step of his "daily" routine- when one of those blindingly white walls collapsed violently in on itself to reveal a vibrant array of colors Steve hadn't seen in ages. There were blues and purples. There were oranges and yellows, and Steve hadn't even <em> thought </em> about how angular and- and shapeless his life had become until he caught a glimpse of Sam's gorgeous intricate wings and the delicately recreated feathers at the end of Hawkeye's arrows in his weathered quiver.</p><p> </p><p>Carol was shining, the star at the center of her chest such a perfect contrast to the red and blue of her suit, and even beside her, the brilliant patterns of Jan's wings and uniform stood out well.</p><p> </p><p>And there he was.</p><p> </p><p>Tony Stark. Iron Man. Red and gold and beautiful. He landed in front of Steve, his faceplate lifting the second the tip of his first boot touched the ground, and the icy blue of his eyes nearly sent Steve into shock. His jaw was sharp, and the bags under his eyes were more pronounced than ever. His facial hair wasn't as neatly trimmed as it normally was, and his cheeks were hollower than they used to be.</p><p> </p><p>"Steve," he breathed out, voice soft and desperate, and everything Steve had been imagining.</p><p> </p><p>It was so much all at once that Steve wasn't quite sure he felt anything at all. His body was loose, almost limp, when Tony pulled him into a tight hug.</p><p> </p><p>"We're going to get you home," he promised. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm home," Steve replied, though there was a lack of... well, <em> anything </em> in his tone. That was the way it was, though. Wasn't it? It wasn't a feeling. It wasn't a fleeting thought, nor was it a loosely held belief that fluttered in and out of his mind like anything else. It was a fact of life.</p><p> </p><p>He didn't have to feel it to know it. Tony was there. Tony was home.</p><p> </p><p>"I'm home," he repeated, leaning against the armor just a tad bit more.</p><p> </p><p>"You gonna hop on, big guy?" There was a waver in Tony's words that Steve elected to ignore; there was no need to call attention to it. Not then. It wasn't like no one on the team would understand.</p><p> </p><p>Steve stepped up onto Tony's boots, wrapping his unbandaged arm around Tony's neck to keep himself secure. Tony held him tight with one arm just in case- or maybe for his own sake, which Steve couldn't blame him for in the slightest- and the faceplate dropped.</p><p> </p><p>"I take it you're all willing to take this on without us?" Tony asked, turning his head to face the team behind them.</p><p> </p><p>Carol met Steve's eyes, giving him her best reassuring smile. </p><p> </p><p>"Avengers," she started. Clint unsheathed an arrow from his quiver, and the lethal expression in his eyes twisted into something more eager. He glanced at Carol, who offered him an understanding nod. "Let's blow the shit out of this place."</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>It was an easy flight home. Steve was able to relax, finally, for the first time in... well, he hadn't asked yet, but he'd figure out soon enough. Tony was used to having passengers, but he was more delicate with Steve in the moment than he would have been on any other day. He landed gently on the balcony of the penthouse, stepping out of the suit the second Steve was supporting himself on his own two feet.</p><p> </p><p>He pulled Steve into another tight hug, pressing his face into the crook of Steve's neck as he suppressed his shaky breath.</p><p> </p><p>Steve wouldn't say he'd forgotten what had happened to him- that certainly wasn't the case- but he'd been so worried about Tony while he was gone. He'd been so worried.</p><p> </p><p>God, it had been so long since he'd spoken. He could barely choke out <em> I'm home</em>, and yet there he was, trying to force a conversation with the love of his life after-- after, uh.</p><p> </p><p>"How long has it been?" he asked, and the sound of his voice shocked him and Tony both. It was raspier than normal, and his tone was less steady. He supposed it wasn't too much of an issue; he'd figure it out again, wouldn't he? It was natural enough. He just needed time.</p><p> </p><p>"Six months," Tony replied, pulling away from Steve just enough to get a good look at him. He rested his hand on the side of Steve's face, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "But that's- That's alright. You don't have to worry about that. We don't have to worry about that right now."</p><p> </p><p>"Your eyes."</p><p> </p><p>"What?"</p><p> </p><p>"Your eyes are so-- You're so gorgeous, Tony," Steve said, as if he were realizing it for the first time. He wasn't. Tony knew that much.</p><p> </p><p>Tony let out a short, huffy laugh of disbelief. God, Steve missed his laugh so much. How could he not have thought about Tony's laugh?</p><p> </p><p>Tony rested his hands on Steve's shoulders, lightly feeling down the sides of his arms. He stopped at the bandages and glanced up at Steve with a quirked brow. Steve was sure Tony wasn't assuming much; he'd been held captive, after all, and it wasn't like that was the worst of his injuries.</p><p> </p><p>"Can I see?" Tony asked.</p><p> </p><p>"Could we go to bed, Tony?"</p><p> </p><p>"You need to check in with med."</p><p> </p><p>"I'll check in tomorrow."</p><p> </p><p>"Steve." Tony’s insistence was weak; he didn’t seem particularly vehement about going against Steve’s wishes, and whether it was for Steve’s sake or his own, Steve couldn’t tell. If the circumstances were different, he might have been stricter, but. They were both tired. They both clearly missed each other.</p><p> </p><p>"I'd like to go to bed with you, Tony," Steve said, more softly. He still wasn't quite... all there, and he was sure it showed, but that was alright. Along with basic human decency, of course, it was that same fact of life- they were home to each other- that made it so easy for Tony to understand.</p><p> </p><p>Tony took a deep breath, squeezing one of Steve's hands in his own as he considered it.</p><p> </p><p>Wordlessly, then, Tony led Steve inside. Steve scanned the room, and his tight grip on Tony's hand loosened as he took it all in. The lighting was warm and soft. The bed was adorned with red and gold sheets (Steve's suggestion, because really, Tony just looked so <em> sweet </em> in, on, and around those colors) and the dressers were made of a gorgeous cherry wood. </p><p> </p><p>His eyes landed on the walls, and though the reddish tone of the light softened the harshness of the white paint, his face fell.</p><p> </p><p>"... Steve?"</p><p> </p><p>Steve's head jerked away from the wall he'd been staring at, his gaze landing on Tony and easing up once again.</p><p> </p><p>"Could we repaint the walls?" he asked. "Something nice? Something warm?"</p><p> </p><p>Tony looked away from Steve to examine the walls in question. He hadn't thought much of them, but his understanding settled in as he recalled his brief glimpse of the stark white room in which Steve stayed.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah," he answered. "Yeah, we'll repaint the walls."</p>
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